There’s always a point where you have to let a story go. Art isn’t finished, as many people before me have pointed out, only abandoned. And eventually you abandon your new child and hope that you’ll get it right next time, or the time after that, and you never do. –NEIL GAIMAN
This was the advice today at Jon Winokaur’s blog, Advice to Writers. It was fitting. No, Bethany, you do not need to read the novel one more time.
And, for National Poetry Month…it was a another day in which I didn’t get a chance to look at the poetry assignment. But, somewhere in there, midday (sitting in my car, looking at the water), I wrote this:
Who knew the ocean could be so implacable–
implacable, a word that has nothing
to do with plaits, with implicate, for instance,
with inextricable, with intricate. The ocean
waves are like braids undone, or like pleats
of a skirt unfolded, coming undone, white caps
not like demure Puritan caps with their tucks and embroidery,
but maybe like Victorian petticoats
or knickers…implacable as in constantly assailed,
unassailable if only in the sense
of not caring at all for the assault,
for your fingers tapping along with its pulse.